


there’s no surrender and there’s no escape

by ahana



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Dystopia, Established Relationship, F/M, Weevil is there in spirit, kind of a dreary angst, ngl this fic is purely self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25319830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahana/pseuds/ahana
Summary: Some fights don't have an end.[An AU set in the world ofThe Hunger Games]
Relationships: Logan Echolls/Veronica Mars
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	there’s no surrender and there’s no escape

**Author's Note:**

> Initially, I had a whole fic planned out that was going to be a THG au (titled “peace by vengeance” with like 15 chapters) that takes place 40-ish years before the events of the books. But, with everything going on in the world, I feel it is 1) insensitive to ignore the issues being raised by BIPOC and minorities across the world in favor of a dystopian/rebellion-centered story where a pretty privileged, white canon character is the main protagonist (and I just couldn’t get myself to write it), and 2) like more negativity in a world where we’re dealing with a global pandemic, civil rights movements, natural disasters, human rights crises, etc. We pretty much live in a dystopian novel already. 
> 
> So, instead, I’ve decided to publish the epilogue I wrote for the story. Because, obviously, I wrote the epilogue before writing the actual fic itself. I hope it still makes sense and I hope it’s still enjoyable!
> 
> Since this fic takes place in the world of The Hunger Games, prior knowledge of that fictional world will help a lot! I’ve tried to explain some of the concepts, either with contextual clues or with outright explanations. So, hopefully, this fic isn’t completely incomprehensible for someone who’s never read the series or watched the movies. 
> 
> The story still takes place 40-ish years before the actual events of THG. President Snow is not president yet. FYI, I haven’t read the new installment that focuses on Snow’s character so this fic might not line up with any events from that particular book.
> 
> Please let me know if something’s confusing and I’ll be happy to explain! Sorry for the long note!

There’s a chill in the air this morning. Something so unnoticeable until you step outside and feel it immediately seep into every part of your body, right down to your bones.

I quietly step around the bushes near the door and make my way to the back of the house. My thin shawl doesn’t offer much comfort to the body when the cool mist of the morning latches onto me but it’s a shield that brings a peace of mind I would never sacrifice.

No one’s awake yet. It’s the day of the reaping and it’s much too early for the hunters, let alone anyone else. But, as has been the case for nearly twelve weeks now, a basket full of day-old bread and a tiny bowl of cranberry jam sit in front of the back door.

I poke around through the contents. There’s an extra roll today.

When we first started getting them, I wanted to track down the person leaving the baskets for us. To thank them or shout at them, I don’t know. But here was a question I could solve without causing my whole world to collapse on me and I couldn’t just give it up. I needed answers. I inspected the basket and staked out the bakers in the square for a whole week before I told Logan about the free food.

He asked me to let it go. He doesn’t ask for much these days, just follows me around as I clean the shelves for the thousandth time or plant seeds in the small garden I carved out in the back. He calls it his “magnificent return to the lives of the rich and lazy,” but he’s neither rich nor lazy. Not anymore, at least.

What he is is tired. I see it in the way he opens his eyes in the morning — reluctantly, like he’s expecting to wake up to fires burning around him that he needs to put out. Probably fires I started because he only calms when I place a hand on him. He walks around with a slight hunch these days and speaks in low volumes. During the rare times he ventures out of the house, he wears a scarf on his head and points his eyes to the ground.

The rebellion took a lot out of us, which neither of us would have minded if it weren’t for the imprisonment and torture that followed the rebellion’s fall in District 5. Felix was caught inside the ambassador’s chambers as he tried to find the hard drives. That was the beginning of the landslide, or so I’m told. I didn’t know anything was wrong while I was shooting at Peacekeepers and trying to protect an injured Jackie. I thought we were winning. That is, until the hoverscreens around District 5 began glitching as they tried to play clips of Logan’s publicly televised torture. He had been captured two days earlier and not one single person in his team had mentioned it to me. Over and over again, he was asked questions about our whereabouts and when he refused, the cameras went dark. A few seconds later, Logan would be back on screen sporting a million bruises and tears in his eyes. He was always bloodless, as if physical proof of blood on screen was where the Capitol drew the line.

Logan never gave up a single thing. He still won’t tell me how long he was in their hold but he never broke under their pressure. By the time I was caught, there were already rumbles in the Capitol by rich citizens who were apparently concerned with the “ghastly torturing of a minor.” I was never tortured though, just starved and occasionally harassed.

I feel their hands on me in the dark sometimes but it’s nothing compared to the way Logan shakes when he’s left alone for too long.

We were let go a month later after we signed treaties with the Capitol, promising to support their propaganda in public and never make a noise. I didn’t think it would be that easy but before I could blink my eyes, we were back in District 8.

I’m still suspicious.

It was too simple for the President Snow I’d come to know and hate.

It’s been nine months since then. I have nightmares filled with hoverscreen-Logan whispering “I don’t know. I don’t know. Let me go, please just let me go.” I try not to think about those suspicions out of fear of another nightmare.

I don’t sleep anymore but nightmares have never had anything to do with sleep or the night. They follow me like ghosts, sharp claws sunk deep into my shoulders. Logan worries. He touches the bags under my eyes sometimes, so softly I might break in half, but I can’t tell him why I’m afraid to lie down next to him. I think he knows though. He lets me sit in the armchair we stole from his father’s house. It’s positioned so that I’m almost right in front of his face. I pull apart all the appliances in the house every night and put them back the next, to give my fingers something to do. He never complains through all the clinking and clanking, just wakes up and holds my hand until he drifts away.

He’d be happy with the extra roll of bread.

I carry it inside the house and put it on the tiny table in the middle of the single room.

After we were released, we didn’t know where we’d go.

While Logan, Felix, and I were curled up on the floor of the horrifically clean Capitol prisons, Weevil fled Panem with the rest of the rebellion. The Peacekeepers had begun to rain down on every house in Panem for information about the rebellion. Anyone who seemed the slightest bit suspicious was killed. I think Weevil waited for us for as long as he could, but he was in charge of fifty traumatized followers. I don’t blame him for leaving when he did. Not when he left us his house.

Logan’s house had been burned down as a warning to us. My house, all the way in the Tracks, still smelled like my dad was going to wake up and make me breakfast. It was a silent agreement that Logan and I would live together. If the peacekeepers wanted to hang us for doing it before we were wed, well… stranger things have happened. Weevil’s little shack on the edge of the Perimeter became ours to claim. If worse came to worst, we’d get kicked out and just move into my house of sorrows.

There’s barely anything in this house, save for the minimal furniture. Wallace offered to go through my dad’s things and find some knick knacks to keep around but Logan just shook his head. I don’t know why but I agreed with him and that was that.

I turn around to face our small bed where Logan’s still asleep on his front, curled up into himself. I hang my shawl on one of the chairs and climb onto his back, just to lie there with my forehead in the crook of his neck. A finger traces the freckles and scars on his back, making patterns I wish I could draw.

“Hmm. What a fine morning it is.”

I can’t help it. I smile.

“A fine morning indeed,” I say, pulling from the haughty accents of his old neighbors. “What ever shall we do today?”

Logan twists his arm and places it on my back, steadying me as he lets me fall onto the bed. His eyes are red and his cheeks are swollen. He cried twice last night and only fell asleep a few hours ago. I’m an ass for waking him up.

“Well, darling.” He pulls himself up on an elbow and looks at the ceiling. “I want a picnic with fine fruit and wine and lots of those little finger foods that I can eat out of your hand.”

I run a finger through his hair and make a mental note to cut it tonight. _If_ we make it home tonight, that is.

For the last few weeks, I’ve had the sneaking suspicion that our actions were being tracked and recorded. The hairs on the back of my neck tickle every time I step outside. I’m certain that the same three people — plainclothed Peacekeepers, in all probability — have been walking past our house in a rotation of sorts, monitoring our moves and waiting for us to lead them to the rest of the rebellion. Ever since we came back certain shops have refused to sell to us and every time we walk into the square, people stop to point and stare. Why kill us directly when we can be isolated and mentally tortured?

Still, Logan and I haven’t done anything to upset the Capitol yet. We smile at Peacekeepers and keep out of everyone’s way. It was part of our agreement for being allowed to come back home. We were deemed to be in no position to “further the Capitol’s intentions to repair its relationship with the broken districts — 5 and 8.” The Capitol doesn’t like players who can’t play the game.

Besides, we didn’t want to lead them to Weevil or Wanda. I don’t know where they are but I don’t think it’d be too hard for me to track them down, if needed.

I tug Logan’s head toward me from where he’s just staring with a soft, teasing smile.

 _They won’t hurt us_ , I tell myself everyday. _They won’t hurt us_. Some of the more merciful Peacekeepers owe Weevil their lives and I’m guessing if he was forced to leave us here, he didn’t leave us unprotected.

“Think you can settle for an extra roll of bread and cranberry jam?” I ask.

“I could make room,” he smiles.

He kisses me and it’s the simplest of kisses. But I’ve come to need each and every one of them more than their predecessors. It’s a kiss that assures a normalcy we don’t have the privilege to experience anymore. I close my eyes and wait for him to settle on top of me, desperately holding onto that assurance until I can’t taste it anymore.

***

This reaping is different.

It’s in the air. Heavy rain poured down last night, tearing down some of the trees at the Perimeter. The earth is wet and it smells just a little bit off.

Everyone’s silent. Footsteps aren’t as loud as they should be on the morning after a storm. Kids make their way through the entry booths and stand in rows silently, like they’re afraid they’ll be beaten for simply making a sound. The adults stand away in the back, as usual — praying and wishing and promising anything as long as their child comes back to them. But this time there’s an increased desperation among them, buzzing. I don’t see any of the typical bettors around either.

We’re all terrified. The Peacekeepers have made us terrified.

Logan and I make our way to the square with our heads down. It’s one thing to know that everyone apparently holds us responsible for the crackdowns and curfews. It’s a whole other thing to see proof of the accusations in their eyes as they walk around you. I don’t think I’d survive looking them in the eyes.

I’m torn between shouting at all of them to back off and pleading for mercy. Truthfully, Logan’s hand around mine is the only thing holding me back from doing both at the same time.

We meet up with Wallace near the registration table. While everyone else dressed up in their best clothes, he’s wearing trousers with holes in them and his hair clearly hasn’t been combed in days. It feels like an act of support for us but one look at his face makes me feel guilty for the short bout of pride. He looks exhausted. Like I could huff and puff and he’d fall over.

“You know, I almost expected you two to show up early,” he says.

“Yeah, well,” Logan says, in a voice so quiet I still can’t reconcile it with the boy I used to know. “We got tired of the attention, would you believe it?”

Wallace laughs a little forcefully. “My mother wanted to see you guys before we went in. She said she mis–”

“Not a good idea,” I interrupt him.

Wallace looks like I told him I would never bake for him again.

“Veronica, it’s my mother! Of course she wants to see you,” he says.

“I’m not letting Alicia get caught in all of this,” I say, a little harshly. He has to understand.

Alicia’s health has been getting worse. Although she found new work at the factory, I know she can’t take on long shifts without blacking out on top of heavy machinery and no apothecary is willing to help the friends of Capitol-declared traitors for free. Wallace tried his best to keep it from me but Darrell cracks easily when I glare at him. He told me there are days when his mother can barely get out of bed, let alone provide for a full meal every night. Wallace has had to take on night shifts. I can only imagine the groans that fill their apartment in the early hours.

“It’s already bad enough that you decided to hang around but I’m not risking Darrell or Alicia,” I tell Wallace with an edge of finality in my voice.

He stares at me for a beat and nods. In this new world, we’re all forced to take sides and he knows he can’t take mine.

We make our way into the rows of kids. Youngest in the front, oldest in the back. As more people come in, our clump becomes tighter, until our elbows are overlapping one another’s and I can practically taste what Wallace had for breakfast.

A loud horn rings out. Ambassador Manning, Mayor Kane and the previous victors make their way to the stage. Peacekeepers bring in the two bowls containing the names of every potential tribute in the district. Every year, I do the math in my head to figure out what my chances are of getting picked. This year…

Every person in the district between the ages of twelve and eighteen has to be registered to be a part of the reaping. The process is cumulative, meaning that if you’re lucky, your name only goes in once a year. The richer kids, like Logan, only have seven slips by the time they turn eighteen. But, say you needed more money to provide for your family, like nearly two-thirds of the eligible reapers in our district. The Capitol will grant you a year’s worth of money and grain for every additional slip you choose to put your name on.

At seventeen, I’m in the reaping fourteen times. It would have only been seven. When dad was around, he wouldn’t let me put my name in more than what was required. But when he was in prison awaiting an execution date and my mother went comatose, I had no choice. I’m lucky, though. I know Wallace has twenty-four slips in there.

The system is rigged simply to turn the poor against the rich, creating an unfathomable gap between the two to ensure that people within a district can never band together for a cause again. Those who can barely scrape together a night’s meal will never trust the family that can eat three courses with no trouble. Mothers starve and children cry, so the wastrels in the Capitol can laugh at the ways we are forced to die for them.

Kane drolls for a while about the history of Panem. He’s wearing the same fed-by-the-Capitol look that he always has: emotionless, diplomatic and satisfied. His speech doesn’t include the rebellion or the district-wide killings. Why address issues when you can deny them forever? His tie is patterned with white lilies and a new chain hangs around his neck. I assume that’s a dedication to his dead son.

Now, isn’t that quite traitorous of him?

“We must take this time to remember the consequences of our actions,” he says in a monotone. “In a society that we’ve built from its ashes, even a butterfly’s wings can disrupt our harmony.”

I look up at Logan. His jaw is clenched tight and the muscles near his chin are jumping out. His eyes are narrowed, looking straight at Kane, and his body is thrumming with rage that I know is born from hurt.

For all the times that Kane told Logan he was like a son to him, he didn’t lift a finger when Logan was imprisoned. No one came to his rescue. He was beaten, starved and emotionally manipulated while Kane plotted our futures from the comfort of his study.

When we were released, we had no one but ourselves. Weevil and his family fled Panem as soon as they heard we were captured. Everyone in the rebellion either died in the bloody fight outside the electrical towers in District 5 or followed Weevil. My mother had drunk herself to death. Aaron’s crimes made Logan a pariah even among the more rebellious circles. We returned bruised so bad, we could barely look at each other for weeks after. And yet, Jake Kane — so-called pseudo father to Logan — stood on the other side.

I expected it. Logan was taken aback.

I squeeze his hand, tugging it slightly toward me. Sometimes, he gets caught up in his feelings and he spirals pretty quickly after that. It scares me — the intensity of his emotions. How a betrayal feels so much deeper to him. How anger can mean trembling hands and fear produces wrinkled sheets. All my life, I’ve learned to keep my emotions below the surface. The less people see, the less they can hurt you. But Logan’s not wired that way. He can only hold onto his emotions for so long before they hang on his body for the world to see.

And right now he’s shooting daggers at the ambassador, which will get him in trouble if the Peacekeepers are watching us.

I pull on his hand again. This time, he looks down at me before lowering his forehead to my temple. His nose is buried in strands of my hair and I run my thumb over the back of his hand. He smells like rain and bread. I’m trying to remain calm for him, but if I’m being honest, I’m _not_ not angry.

“Happy Hunger Games!” I hear the ambassador say. “May the odds be _ever_ in your favor, District 8!”

All of this pomp and circumstance serves as a reminder of the power they hold over us. Power they continue to hold because the rebellion failed.

No one expects a mole until it’s found. No one expects being trapped in the electrical towers, surrounded by a hundred peacekeepers, until you’re frantically looking for a way out.

We failed.

We trusted too many people, the wrong people. There should have been a vetting process or some sort of hazing test that everyone had to pass. Beaver wouldn’t have slipped through the cracks if I had just tightened things up. Instead, Mac and I ended up on a rooftop surrounded by flames, pointing a gun at Beaver as the peacekeepers yelled for us to step outside. Twenty-two people paid the price for my bad judgement — eight of them directly as they tried to protect the hard drives from him. We couldn’t figure it out. We couldn’t fight for longer.

And now the rest of Panem has to bear the brunt of our anger through constricted medical and food supplies. We have more years under people who don’t know us and couldn’t care any less than they already do. Where do we go from here?

“Ladies first,” the ambassador says, as always.

He makes his way to the bowl and with no other ceremony, pulls the first slip his fingers touch. Logan’s hold on my hand gets tighter. It should hurt but it keeps me grounded. Manning’s fingers unfold the paper but he’s already speaking. His voice, clearer than it’s been so far, rings out across the square. Apparently, he doesn’t need to look at a piece of paper to know whose name to say.

“Veronica Mars!”

I feel like I’m being pulled backwards. My heart rate picks up but my mind is slow to catch up. For a second, nothing sinks in. It’s like I didn’t hear him at all. I’m still holding Logan’s hand and I’m still watching the ambassador push his fingers in the bowl. And then suddenly, the bubble around me bursts.

Around me, people are whispering excitedly. My heart’s beating faster and every suspicion I had held for the past few months has been confirmed.

The Capitol didn’t kill me then because they needed to make a public example out of me. _Defy us and meet your death._ In a week, twenty-three people will stand in a circle with weapons prepared for me for all of Panem to see.

I’d scoff if I could get my mouth to move.

The group of boys in front have created a wide path for me to walk through. I don’t think I have any control over my limbs. My right foot takes a step forward and I begin to follow it, but something pulls me back.

“No,” Logan says. His voice is strained and his hand is like a vice around mine. I look up at him to find tears collecting in the corner of his wide eyes. Anguish is spilled across his face. He struggles to swallow and for a second, I really want to stay there next to him.

When we were stuck in the tunnels in District 5, Logan had to create a distraction for the Peacekeepers so we could get inside the ambassador’s house. The brisk soldiers’ march above us only meant they were closing in and he had offered to walk right into their hands for us. Weevil and Felix climbed over the fences as soon as the words came out of Logan’s mouth but I couldn’t move my feet. He packed his bag, and I stood watching him. All I could see was the twelve-year-old boy who would sneak out of his house to hang out with me in the market. No matter who we became or what we did, we were always going to be those kids.

I almost kissed him that day. Instead, I made him promise he would come back to me.

He kept his promise. But, if he asks me to make the same one now, I don’t have the strength to lie to him.

So, I tug my hand out of his grip, slowly, and blink my tears away. I take a step away from him. Then another. And another.

As I turn around, I catch a glimpse of my face on the hoverscreens. The tears I thought were spilling down my face aren’t there. My cheeks are red, eyebrows furrowed and mouth thin. There’s no emotion, not a single twitch. Dad’s sweater hangs loose around my thin shoulders. In the morning, it made me look small. Right now, I seem like I’m jumping out of it. I am disheveled in every sense of the word. But my eyes are steely. I look angry.

Good.

I want my anger to haunt them till every last brick in the Capitol crumbles down.

As I climb up the steps, I turn my head to look at Logan before I can even convince myself it’s a bad idea. His face is set. He’s clenching his jaw too tight and I know what that means.

I stand in front of the girls’ bowl with my head hanging down. No one claps. That’s not unusual but the frantic whispering is.

“Well then,” Ambassador Manning says. He sounds unnerved. “It’s time for the boys.”

The whispering grows in volume now. To my right, I hear the scraping of shoes.

Logan’s making his way to the front of the crowd. The Peacekeepers pull their guns closer to them in anticipation of his next movement but he keeps walking through the sea of people until he reaches the center aisle.

“Hart Hanson!” The ambassador announces, to my right.

The words are barely out of his mouth but Logan’s already shouting, “I volunteer as tribute!”

He’s pulled out his firm voice. The one that dares anyone to go ahead and push his buttons.

“Young man, there are rules to follow,” the ambassador says. “You are supposed to wait till we finish introducing our original tribute and then, ask for any volunteers. Method and procedure are key. You’d do good to remember that.”

Logan quips at him, all rich-kid attitude, but I don’t hear it. I close my eyes in a silent goodbye. Every morning that I woke up next to him, every nightmare we shared. Whatever we were came out of nowhere, unexpected, and yet, the only source of stability in my life. I’ve seen him fight, cry and kill. Now, there are plates in our sink that will never be washed and an armchair that will never be filled.

Only one of us is allowed to walk out of that arena. And it sure isn’t going to be me.

I won’t cry now. Not when all of Panem is watching. I feel him walk in front of me, brushing his hand against me. While his face screams defiance, his eyes are soft and he’s got them trained on me. He may appear emotionless to the world, his mask of passive dismissal is not one he easily sheds once it’s on, but I feel the warmth emanating from him. There is so much to tell him still, to show him, but we’ve run out of time. I want to take comfort in his eyes like I do every night. I meet his eyes and I wonder if he can see the tears in mine that the rest of the world can’t.

He winks at me.

No smirk, no smile. Just a wink.

For me.

My knees threaten to give out.

He holds out a hand, high enough for all to see. Kane is reading the Treaty of Treason on the other side of the stage but the cameras are still focusing on us. A year ago, Logan asked me to trust him. He told me that he might push, tease and fight me but he would never betray me. We were standing alone in the woods, the wind was harsh and the sun was nowhere to be seen. Dark clouds followed me everywhere that week but I let myself trust him. Six months after that, he let himself get arrested so I wouldn’t get caught. He’s never led me wrong.

I take his hand.

Lightning ought to flash in this moment, I think. But nothing happens. Nature doesn’t smite us and Kane continues to harangue about the treatment meted out to a now-invisible District 13.

As we lower our hands, I look out at our own district. Unless they were dying or dead, every person who has been affected by our actions, for better or worse, is present in the square. I don’t know if they want to hate us or cry for us — two people who were instrumental in the rebellion. We brought anger back to the people who had lost hope, but we didn’t give them the win we had promised. I don’t know what to expect from them. But, in seven days, Logan and I will fight again.

This is who we are. It’s only fitting that this is who we might die as.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song Game of Survival by Ruelle. 
> 
> Thank you LoVeObsessed2 for the beta-reading! Some of the "dumb word stuff" wouldn't have made sense without you <3
> 
> A day-by-day timeline of The Hunger Games can be found [ here](https://hobbylark.com/fandoms/The-Hunger-Games-Book-1-A-Day-by-Day-Timeline#:~:text=As%20the%20timeline%20makes%20clear,homes%20and%20their%20loved%20ones.). A more general timeline of all of the events in the fictional universe are [ here](https://thehungergames.fandom.com/wiki/Timeline). 
> 
> I made a playlist for the original fic but some highlights that fit this published piece are: Bad Dream by Ruelle, House of the Rising Sun by Lauren O’Connell, The Staggering Girl by Ryuichi Sakamoto, and Silent Running (Epic Trailer Version) by Hidden Citizens.
> 
> [Edited for grammatical errors post-publication]


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